


in-console-able

by amillionsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Haikyuu Secret Santa 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: or: Kenma works at a video game shop, Tora has bad luck buying last-minute holiday presents, and neither of them knows what's in store.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Yamamoto Taketora
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	in-console-able

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joshllyman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/joshllyman/gifts).



> Happy holidays @joshllyman! I was your Secret Santa - I hope you enjoy a little KenTora :)

“You could try to look a little less bored, you know.”

From where he’s sitting behind the cash register, Kenma levels Kuroo with a flat look. Their boss had stationed two people within the game shop today in anticipation of a holiday rush, but it’s been quiet since noon. Kenma doesn’t mind—the whole reason he’d taken the job was that it hadn’t demanded too much of him, between a painless interview process (due largely to Kuroo’s nepotism as assistant manager) and the many lull periods during which he can check the stock market on his phone. That, and Kuroo lets him curate a display stand at the front of the shop where Kenma highlights his monthly video game picks. Even that doesn’t require much effort, since people usually take the notes he’s written on the placards at face value and don’t push much further, though he’d be happy to talk if anyone would ask.

“Leave him alone, Kuroo,” says Yaku, placing an elbow against the glass case that hosts the store’s collection of figurines. The open back visor printed with a palm tree sits comfortably over his light brown hair—between that and the chevron pattern of his uniform, every part of him screams “tropical” despite it being winter. He works at the smoothie shop three doors over from them and always brings one in on his breaks, somehow managing to drink it in the loudest way possible. It makes Kenma feel a little pinched between his eyebrows.

“Could you not smudge the glass, please.”

“Whoops, sorry!”

“I’m his manager,” Kuroo insists.

In Kenma’s opinion, Kuroo is entirely too proud of that little silver badge pinned to his red polo—but then, Kuroo has been more embarrassing than usual these days, and it has everything to do with the boy currently waving his finger saying, “Good managers know how to pick their battles.” Kenma gives it five minutes before Kuroo caves to Yaku’s whims and they go off to look at the decorations around the mall. It boggles Kenma that Yaku hasn’t said anything about Kuroo’s terribly transparent crush on him, but maybe it’s only this obvious because Kenma’s known Kuroo since they were little.

Right on cue, Kuroo glances at the clock.

“Just go,” Kenma says before Kuroo can open his mouth and conjure an excuse. “I’ll be in the exact same place when you get back.”

Yaku makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat. “Bye, Kenma,” he waves. Kenma watches him and Kuroo through the windows as they walk toward the escalators and then, finally, he’s alone.

Not for long. Only fifteen minutes have passed when a guy with a dyed blonde mohawk comes into the store. He’s wearing a black hoodie and a red scarf, the tip of his nose flushed from either cold, exertion, or some combination thereof. Immediately, he starts skimming the shelves. After five minutes, he takes a step back and just stands there, chest rising and falling.

He looks like the sort of person who breathes with his mouth open at night. Kenma does not mean this in a derogatory way; it’s just an offhand observation at the degree of motion present in this guy’s body. There are no conservative movements. Every part of him screams _willpower_ and _energy._

Tucking his phone in his pocket, Kenma stands up from behind the register. He’s not that tall, and Kuroo often comments that he could make his presence larger, so he straightens his spine and raises his voice louder in order to be noticed. “Can I help you?”

The guy whips his head around and stalks toward him.

“Do you have any copies of Battle of the Garbage Dump?” he demands.

They did a day ago. _Battle of the Garbage Dump_ is an immensely popular dungeon crawler; its basic premise is that you fall through a dumpster into another world and have to explore and fight your way back to the surface. All the gaming reviewers have been raving about it because of the top-notch graphics as well as the mid-game twist and two secret endings. They’d ordered a restock, but those copies aren’t set to arrive until mid-January.

“We’re sold out.”

“C’mon, you’ve gotta have something in your back room!”

This is the part where Kuroo would intervene and offer some sort of platitude. Kenma, however, decides to save his energy. Wordlessly, he walks into the storeroom and shuts the door behind him. Thanks to his precise inventory-keeping, Kenma knows with 100% certainty that there isn’t a single copy of Battle of the Garbage Dump left back here. But to humor Mohawk Guy, he spends five minutes scrolling through his phone and approving a microtransaction before walking back out.

“Still nothing.”

“Damn it!” Mohawk Guy clenches his teeth and brings his right fist and left palm together.

Kenma feels a little bad for him, but anyone worth their gaming salt could probably have predicted this outcome. Timing is everything, and _Battle of the Garbage Dump_ entered the market at _just_ the right moment that everyone knew it was going to get snapped up in the holiday crush.

“Try again next year,” Kenma says.

He doesn’t mean it snidely—the new year is just around the corner, after all—but Mohawk Guy bristles.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mutters. Kenma expects him to stomp away just as quickly as he entered the store, but the boy exits with more of a dejected shuffle.

Kenma watches, a small twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. 

o.O.o

The sky is long dark when he gets off work at 7. The moon hangs like a cup of milk filled almost to the brim. By the bushes framing the stairwell up to his apartment, Kenma pauses and pulls a can of sardines out of his red windbreaker, popping the tab and setting it on the concrete ledge. A short while later, a calico cat pads over. Its jaws work as it scarfs the meals down; sated, it sits back on its haunches and licks one paw before blinking at him, eyes bright.

No one in the apartment has claimed it, despite the anonymous posters Kenma put up. Sometimes Kenma doesn’t see the cat for days on end, but it’s a scrappy fellow and never seems worse for wear when it does emerge. He’s thought about taking it in once or twice, but he doesn’t want to disrupt the rapport they have. Maybe in another week or so they’ll be fully adjusted to each other.

For dinner, he warms some katsudon and curry. After the meal’s settled in his belly, he bundles himself in a comforter and sets up in front of the TV, intent on getting through a good chunk of _Ice 9_ tonight.

Now that Kenma’s paying his own rent, he feels less guilty about leaving the lights on while he plays. No doubt it’s done wonders in reducing his eye strain. Because he has the later shift at the video game shop, he can afford to sleep in until 11 AM, meaning he usually calls it quits at 3 in the morning to get his eight hours of rest. The knock on his door at 1:30 AM startles him out of his skin. He stays still, wondering if it was an accident.

No such luck. Another rap, more persistent. Cracking open the door, Kenma squints up at… Mohawk Guy.

His first thought is that this guy tracked him home from the store to settle a personal vendetta. Bit by bit, though, Kenma processes the rest: the boy is bundled head to toe, his expression transitioning from miserable to mortified as he realizes who he’s disturbed.

“I didn’t know you lived here,” Mohawk Guy says, by way of apology. “I just thought—uh. My heater’s broken, and you were the only door that had light coming from it on this floor.” 

Kenma pokes his head out. He hadn’t gone out of his way to meet his neighbors when he moved in.

“Where do you live?”

Mohawk Guy points. “Three doors down. I’m Yamamoto, by the way.”

“You can come in.” Kenma steps aside.

Yamamoto visibly relaxes at the wave of warmth that hits him upon crossing the threshold. Kenma hates how cold it gets in the winter, so he always jacks up the heat. He drags over a floor pillow for Yamamoto to sit on.

“Do you want some tea?”

“If you’re already making some,” says Yamamoto, rubbing his hands together.

Kenma starts the tea kettle, packing some dried leaves into his tea infuser. Halfway through, he realizes that he hadn’t considered whether Yamamoto keeps the same night owl hours he does, and he probably should have picked a non-caffeinated herbal blend.

Yamamoto, however, doesn’t seem intent on turning in anytime soon.

“I called the landlord and they’re sending someone for repairs early tomorrow morning,” he tells Kenma, looking about the room. “Your place is pretty bare. How long have you lived here?”

“Six months.”

“Longer than me, then. I moved in three months ago.”

The water boils. Kenma pours two cups and carries them over, setting them on the small glass coffee table.

“Thanks,” says Yamamoto. He gestures toward the TV, still stuck on the pause menu. “Those are some pretty high quality graphics.”

“I like gaming.”

“I figured. Can I check out your shelf?”

“Uh, sure.” Kenma’s caught off-guard by Yamamoto’s casualness. He’d kind of had a fearsome look to him in the store—it was the eyebrows, Kenma thinks, their deep furrow. Here in his apartment, Yamamoto’s features are more relaxed, an easy openness as he peruses the titles Kenma has organized by the TV.

“Hey!” The expression quickly transforms into betrayal. Yamamoto holds up Kenma’s copy of _Battle of Garbage Dump,_ glowering. “You have it!”

“We can play it if you want.”

Uncertainty. Desire wins out; Yamamoto nods grudgingly, handing the disc over to let Kenma set it up. Kenma makes a new save slot for him—the game’s a treat to watch unfold, and he doesn’t want to spoil Yamamoto by dropping him in the middle of his own playthrough. Yamamoto wriggles a bit as he waits for the game to fully load, and Kenma looks down, briefly, to hide his smile.

o.O.o

Watching Yamamoto play, Kenma decides after half an hour, is fascinating if a bit exhausting. Where Kenma likes to pile on combos in his attacks and learn how to execute increasingly difficult sequences, Yamamoto picks two or three moves and button smashes them with increasing vigor. Kenma can’t be mad about it because it _works_ with a savage elegance; Yamamoto has a very fast trigger finger and uses his other hand to roll in, deliver a few quick blows, and roll away. Rinse and repeat.

“Man, this game is awesome,” Yamamoto sighs. “I wish I’d ordered it earlier. I was trying to get it as a last-minute gift for my sister since I heard it was such a big deal.”

Kenma perks up at the mention of a sister. He doesn’t have any siblings of his own, but Kuroo is always spewing bits of information and then saying he got them from his older sister. This piece of Yamamoto floats to the top, like the start of a character storyline he’s supposed to pay attention to, to watch unfold.

“We’ll probably get a new shipment in January,” Kenma comforts. After a beat, he asks, “What do you do? During the day.”

Yamamoto glances at him sidelong. “I’m a fitness trainer. By the way, your name’s Kenma, right?”

Blinking, Kenma realizes that he never introduced himself in return before letting Yamamoto into his apartment. “Uh, yeah.”

“Okay, between your name tag in the store and the username that’s what I figured, but I just wanted to be sure. Do you work out at all?”

“I jog.” Kenma blanches. “Sometimes.”

“We should go running together! I know a few good routes nearby.”

Kenma imagines it. Yamamoto would probably cheer him on, or else be one of those guys who gets in your head and eggs you on by being all competitive. Kenma would probably fall for it. It’s not… miserable.

Reading his silence as hesitance, Yamamoto says, “Listen, I know we started off on the wrong foot, and you kind of pissed me off in the store, but you seem pretty cool, deep down. Maybe we could be friends.”

“Sure,” Kenma parcels out. “If that’s what you want.”

“Fuck what I want! Is that what _you_ want?”

“What I want,” Kenma decides, reddening, “is to go to bed.” He knows himself well enough to recognize the flare of curiosity sparked by this exchange puts him one step closer to tipping over into fixation, and Kenma can _not_ afford to get fixated on some guy with weird eyebrows and loud energy. He distracts himself by pulling an extra comforter out of one of his storage bins and depositing it in front of Yamamoto. “You can sleep on the floor. We can talk in the morning.”

“In the morning,” Yamamoto crows, as if he’s already won—and perhaps he has. “Can’t wait.”

o.O.o

Kenma stirs earlier than usual, rising from bed at 9 AM. The only sign of Yamamoto’s presence from the night before is the neatly folded comforter by the foot of his bed and a bright red energy drink with a sticky note attached to it. _Loud,_ Kenma thinks, wanting to throw the blanket over his head and retreat back into sleep, but instead he drags the sheets with him and bends to pick up the bottle.

_MORNING JOG. 9:30. I’LL BE WAITING AT THE LAMP POST_

_-YAMAMOTO (CALL ME TORA!)_

There was really no reason for Tora to write in all caps. It makes him sound like a serial killer. Kenma makes a note to himself to bring this up, and then he carefully folds the Post-It and pads over to his closet to get ready.

**Author's Note:**

> chat w/ me on [tumblr](http://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware)!


End file.
